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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871795">#MarchOfTheWhumps Collection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelibrarygirl/pseuds/thelibrarygirl'>thelibrarygirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Archives crew please get some therapy, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kiss-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Sex-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Whump, no betas we die like archival assistants</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:01:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871795</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelibrarygirl/pseuds/thelibrarygirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Following prompts from #MarchOfTheWhumps, one for each day.<br/>FYI: because nobody can stop me I'm writing Jon as my particular type of ace: cuddly, desperately affectionate, but totally averse to mouth-kisses and repulsed by sex.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Day 1: Please Don’t Leave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 1: “Please don’t leave.”</p><p>When Martin slides into the Lonely at the safehouse, Jon asks him to stay.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The house in the Highland countryside might have been idyllic if it wasn’t so obvious what it was once used for. A garden sprawled out in the yard, an excuse for the shovel that had buried more bodies than vegetable seeds. Jon both knew, because he’d nearly been on the receiving end once, and Knew, because he could see it, Beholding flashing behind his eyes: Daisy planting a shovel in the earth, her hair shorter than it had been when they met, her face gleaming in the moonlight as she labored, unhurriedly. He tried not to pay attention to the bodies leaned up against the shed, discarded like Daisy had forgotten about them. Then the knowledge was gone, fleeting into the night when Jon felt a tentative hand curl around his. </p><p>He could lose himself in Knowing about all the horrors that had happened in this place, but <em> Martin</em>. Martin was more important. (The Eye didn’t like that—the Eye wanted desperately for him to <em> know</em>, to rehash the fear in this place, to <em> feed </em> it. But the Eye was done getting what it wanted, Jon thought grimly.)</p><p>He pushed back against the flood of information as he fumbled with the lock and opened the door, taking small comfort from the fact that few murders had actually occurred inside the building. It was—</p><p>“Quaint.” It was the first word Martin had said since they left London, shaking and terrified with the frost and sea spray of the Lonely still clinging to their skin. The expression on his face was almost a smile, and Jon’s knees went weak at the sight of it.</p><p>After Peter had his claws in him, Martin hadn’t been doing much smiling. It looked out of practice and heartbreakingly shallow, like an imitation of the sunny expression he used to wear around the Archives back—</p><p>The memory of Tim, and the distinct <em> absence </em>of memory of Sasha, hit Jon right in the chest.</p><p>Best not to think of it.</p><p>Martin did not let go of Jon’s hand, but looked around with interest. </p><p>Jon shuddered with Knowing there were coils of rope, rolls of duct tape, tarps folded neatly in the bottom of the closet. Knives of varying sizes. A hammer that could have been used for home repairs, if he didn’t know better—didn’t know it was most often used on skulls. He dropped his bag on the floor and raked a shaky hand over his face.</p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>“Sorry, this place is just...it’s a lot.”</p><p>“M’sorry,” Martin said softly.</p><p>Jon wasn’t tired, not after glutting himself on Peter Lukas’s fear until it tore him apart. He had died afraid, and the Eye had <em> reveled </em> in it, and rewarded Jon for that. His human needs—sleep, food—had diminished until they were almost nonexistent, and killing Peter had proved what <em> could </em>still sustain him, if he was monstrous enough to take what the Eye offered.</p><p>Well. Bit late for that. He’d made that damning decision long ago in a hospital bed.</p><p>“I’ll take the couch.” Jon dropped his hand and turned away. Martin made a small sound of protest that went right to his heart. “There’s a bed in the room down the hall—to your left, don’t go in the room on your right. It’s...it’s locked anyway, but that’s, ah, that’s where Daisy...worked.”</p><p>“Oh, Christ,” Martin muttered. With a sigh, he shuffled away from the living room, and Jon watched his retreating back with something like loss constricting his lungs.</p><p>“Good night, Martin.” </p><p>“Night, Jon.” He ambled into the room down the hall and out of sight. </p><p>Jon wondered how long Martin had been saying his name like that—with softness, reverence, like it was something precious. He had never noticed before, but now it feels like a life ring in the sea of his inhumanity. If Martin still said his name like that, it must mean there was some good left in him.</p><p>He couldn’t stalk anyone’s nightmares like an eldritch terror if he didn’t sleep, he reasoned, so he bustled around the cabin restlessly, digging around in cabinets (lots of nonperishables in uniform silver tins, and at the back, triumphantly, he located a box of PG Tips, crushed on one side by Daisy’s careless hand) and washing up the dusty flatware, kettle, and pans he found.</p><p>He scrubbed furiously at a pair of mugs under water as hot as he could stand, his burn-scarred hand aching. In the morning he would make the tea for a change. He would be the one knocking on the door, offering a mug full of comforting tea made with—with—his heart stuttered as he recalled Martin’s past tense.</p><p>
  <em> I really loved you, you know.  </em>
</p><p>If Martin no longer returned his feelings, that was fine. Understandable. </p><p>Jon almost dropped the mug clutched in his hands as something cold and damp snaked around his ankles.</p><p>Fog.</p><p>His bad leg almost gave out as he turned to run, bolting for the bedroom.</p><p>There was a divot on the bed, but Martin—Jon reached out frantically and felt him under his fingertips, his bony hands digging into the worn fabric of Martin’s t-shirt. He could feel him shaking, could hear his teeth chattering. Jon’s hand abruptly fell through, hitting the mattress.</p><p>“No no no no no no,” he hissed desperately.</p><p>It was remarkably easy to slip back into the Lonely when it had had its hooks in Martin for so much of his life.</p><p>“Please, Martin.” Jon sat on the bed, relieved to feel a body flickering back into existence. He threw one arm over Martin, buried his face until he felt the top of his head bump Martin’s chin.</p><p>He was still invisible.</p><p>“Please don’t leave.” </p><p>The wretched anguish in his voice seemed to break something in Martin because he came back all at once, damp with sea spray and shaking like a leaf. Jon didn’t sob with relief, but it was a near thing. </p><p>They could both hear the call of gentle waves crashing, low and far off, but they clung to each other until the Lonely relinquished its grip. Martin raised a tentative hand and placed it feather-light on Jon’s back.</p><p>“Is this...alright?” Jon asked, without looking up. He didn’t want to see Martin’s face when he gently ask him to leave.</p><p>But he didn’t.</p><p>“More than alright.” He carded his fingers through Jon’s hair. He leaned into the touch. “I think...I think we both need some protection against the Lonely.”</p><p>They were still that way in the morning, light streaming through the cheerful checkered curtains that didn’t match the rest of Daisy’s utilitarian decor: Martin on his back, snoring lightly, with Jon curled up against his chest, his ear against his heart. For once, he didn’t dream of the Eye, of statements or fears or even the silver haze of the Lonely. It was the best either of them had slept in a long, long time.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Day 2: Unseen Injury</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 2: Unseen Injury</p><p>Jon goes to drastic measures to keep himself from taking a live statement from a victim.</p><p>See the notes for trigger warnings.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: self-harm, injury</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Some habits die harder than others, and loving Jon from afar was as easy as breathing, he was so used to it. It wasn’t...incompatible, with his new patron. It almost, he felt, <em> fed </em>it. Because what’s more lonely than loving someone and knowing you can never have them? So the Lonely let him have this, and smoothed over the pain of it until it was nothing but a chilly echo in his chest. Invisibility lent itself well to watching, and the Eye was hungry, too. Or at least that was Martin’s excuse. He couldn’t touch Jon, couldn’t speak to him, couldn’t shrug off the mantle of Loneliness, but he could see him, at least.</p><p>Jon’s breaths were uneven, ragged, and his eyes blown wide. His hands were shaking.</p><p><em> Withdrawal. </em> It must have been statement withdrawal. Martin was relieved and horrified in equal measure. Clearly he’d taken the <em> stop feeding on people </em> lecture to heart, but Martin hadn’t quite anticipated the result would be Jon starving himself. </p><p>He slipped into his office and Martin let out a shaky breath, his focus slipping just long enough to let a bit of human warmth through the fog of invisibility around him.</p><p>Daisy, who leaned casually by Jon’s closed door with her arms folded taut, whipped her head around, eyes glinting in the dim hallway lights, a flash of gold where there should only be hazel. After all, once a hunter, always a hunter.</p><p>“Knew you couldn’t stay away from him altogether,” she said conversationally, and Martin flinched. She couldn’t see him, but that didn’t stop her from knowing he was there. “But I thought you might have noticed that something is wrong. Talking might not be your favorite these days, but you’re the only one he might listen to, so I suggest you give it a shot.”</p><p>Martin wrapped the Lonely tighter around him. No warmth, no sound. Daisy’s eyes still lingered over the spot where he was. Animal instinct.</p><p>“Unless you want to wait for him to off himself properly next time.” She turned and stalked away, her footfalls silent but her shoulders set with a tension that betrayed her. </p><p><em> Properly. Next time</em>. Jesus. What had he missed?</p><p>Forcing himself to be present, <em> really </em> present—it was painful. He felt terribly exposed, visible but washed out, his skin paler than it used to be. He ambled to the break room, feeling his heart constrict painfully in his chest as he went through the motions that had once been as familiar to him as his own breathing: put on the kettle, find the box of tea, search for mugs. His hands ghosted over a lurid, chipped, oversized mug with blue, pink, and purple hibiscus stamped all over it. That had been <em> Tim’s </em> favorite mug. Nobody had touched it since the Unknowing. It went unused, and nobody had to heart to get rid of it. It <em> hurt</em>. (He forgot just how much it hurt, <em> feeling </em>things instead of letting the Lonely numb him.)</p><p>He found the two blandest mugs he could, with no memories tied up in them, and rinsed them in the sink, disheartened to find them a bit dusty. When <em> was </em> the last time he’d made tea? And he knew good and well that if <em> he </em>didn’t bully Jon into taking care of himself, the man was highly unlikely to take the initiative to do so himself.</p><p>Daisy’s words echoed in his head as he dunked the tea bags, muscle memory compelling him to put two sugars in Jon’s, because he might have forgotten a lot of things about being human in the last couple of months, but how Jon liked his tea wasn’t one of them.</p><p>
  <em> Properly next time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Off himself properly next time.</em>
</p><p>How could he have missed something of that magnitude? Everything he was doing was to keep Jon safe, and it clearly <em> still </em>wasn’t enough.</p><p>He knocked gingerly but didn’t wait for an answer, swinging the office door open. It hit him suddenly how small Jon looked at his oversized desk, curled in on himself, behind stacks of files bursting with old paper statements. His eyes widened and Martin felt a distant pang when he recognized the look for what it was: not fear, but relief. <em> He wants you around. He misses you</em>. Oh, but he knew that wasn’t true. There wasn’t enough left of him to miss, after all.</p><p>“Martin.” Jon’s voice was unbearably soft, a bit unbelieving. It almost made him miss his early days in the Archives, when all he knew were Jon’s sharp edges.</p><p>“Thought you might like a cuppa.” Martin’s hand shook only a little as he held out the mug.</p><p>Jon didn’t move to get it, pain pulling his face taut. </p><p>“What happened?” he asked bluntly. Well, so much for subtlety. </p><p>Jon’s expression shuttered and it felt like a punch. A deserved one. Martin cut himself off from Jon; it was only fair that he return the favor.</p><p>“Nothing,” Jon said crisply, and staggered to his feet. God, did he always look so tired? There was a tremor in his hand when he took the mug. “Thank you, Martin.”</p><p>He couldn’t bear the way his name sounded in Jon’s mouth. Tender, like it was something to be cherished.</p><p>Too late, too late, too late.</p><p>“Jon. Tell me what happened.”</p><p>He scowled, and ah, there it was—the Jon he used to know, closed off and defensive. A little crease formed between his eyebrows. “Nothing important. I did what was necessary to keep myself from...taking a statement.”</p><p>Martin settled down in the chair that statement givers usually used, on the rare occasion they came in to give a live one, and leaned forward attentively.</p><p>“Well. That’s good, but...what exactly does that entail?”</p><p>“Beholding wanted it. And what the Eye wants, my body...well, it will do what it takes to get it. So I simply incapacitated myself. Nothing to worry about.”</p><p>“Incapacitated?” Martin’s voice was an octave higher than usual.</p><p>“Yes. And it seems,” Jon added sourly, “That it only grants preternatural healing abilities when I’m not actively working against it, so I am healing the old-fashioned way.”</p><p>“Oh, Jon.” It was strangled, pained, and Martin involuntarily reached forward before pulling his hand back. “Please promise me you won’t do that again.”</p><p>“I <em> will</em>, if I must,” Jon said fiercely, and how had Martin forgotten how stubborn this man was? (Hadn’t it been part of what made him—his heart stuttered, because it had been a long time since he had felt <em> anything</em>, much less <em> love</em>. But yes, it was part of what made him love Jon.) His hand shot out, wrapping around Martin’s, and it burned. He bit back a cry, knowing Jon would drop his arm if he did, and god, that was the last thing he wanted. Jon pressed Martin’s hand firmly against his chest. “Do you feel it? More importantly, do you feel what <em> isn’t there</em>?” Jon’s words were jagged, broken. “I don’t even think I can <em> die,</em> Martin. I already did, and the Eye decided to keep me anyway.”</p><p>He dropped Martin’s hand, which stayed over Jon’s heart—where it should have beat.</p><p>Martin fervently hoped it was true, even knowing what it meant for Jon’s humanity. For Jon’s <em> loss </em>of humanity. </p><p>“Let’s not test that,” he said quietly. “Can I—?”</p><p>Jon made a noncommittal sound, pulling down the collar of his shirt to reveal sloppy stitches. Martin’s fingers ghosted over the wound. A stab wound there should have <em> killed </em>him. For the first time, Martin was grateful that the Eye wouldn’t let him go. He could have lost Jon and not even known it.</p><p>“Daisy sewed me up. Can’t very well go to hospital without a heartbeat, now, can I?” Jon asked dryly. “I should be fine. In a few days.”</p><p>“Don’t.” Martin’s voice was broken, but he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t summon the energy to sound distant and uncaring. Not now. “Don’t make light of this.”</p><p>Jon tugged his shirt back into place. “Martin—”</p><p>He couldn’t take the tenderness of Jon’s voice. He sat his own mug, untouched, down on the edge of Jon’s desk.</p><p>“Don’t <em> Martin </em> me,” he snapped. “And for fuck’s sake, <em> don’t </em> hurt yourself.”</p><p><em> I need something worth fighting for, </em> he didn’t say, desperately. <em> I need you to be here, because if it’s not you I’m protecting, then what’s even the point? </em></p><p>Jon’s mouth opened to reply, but Martin let to fog take him again, vanishing right in the middle of Jon’s office. He didn’t leave for a long time, though, just watched Jon put his head in his hands, and wondered if the stitches pulled with each heaving breath he took. He wasn’t okay, and neither was Martin, and there was nothing he could do about it.</p><p>Jon finally stood up from his desk, shaky—<em> when was the last time he’d even read a stale statement? </em> Was he punishing himself? Would that help him heal faster?—and headed for the door. He stopped, feeling the cold spot, and looked directly at Martin, looking at him, looking <em> through </em>him, pinning him with his gaze. </p><p>“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he whispered. “I did it to—to stop myself from hurting someone else. And perhaps to hurt myself...just a little. I won’t do it again.” </p><p>Martin remained silent, and watched Jon go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Day 3: Exhaustion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 3: Exhaustion</p><p>Jon's been refusing the feed the Eye with nightmares from statement givers, citing his inhumanity frees him from the requirement of sleep.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Though he was out of practice from months spent shrouding himself in Loneliness, Martin still knew every line of Jon’s face. He could identify the moment Jon tipped over from tired to exhausted, when the dark circles under his eyes were more like bruises. </p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>He didn’t look up from where he stood in the tiny kitchen of Daisy’s safehouse, silently scrambling the eggs they’d got down at the supermarket on their first trip to town. He didn’t hear him, or he didn’t <em> want </em> to, or was just too far in his head to notice. </p><p>“Jon.” Martin raised his voice slightly, and Jon jerked, hissing as the edge of the pan burned his wrist.</p><p>Before he could jump up and take a look, the skin there split, peeled, revealing a shiny new scar underneath. Perfectly healed.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Jon said immediately. Did he know Martin was going to apologize, or did he Know it? It shouldn’t matter either way.</p><p>Which way was more likely to get him to take care of himself? Gentleness, <em> you really need to rest, Jon </em> ? Or bluntness? <em> You look like shit, like you’re going to fall over. Go to bed</em>. </p><p>“After breakfast I thought we could have a bit of a lie-in?” he suggested amiably, hoping Jon didn’t notice his fingers tightening around his mug. “Go back to bed and read for a bit?”</p><p>The stiffness of Jon’s shoulders was all the answer he needed. “You’re welcome to do that, if you like.” </p><p>“Come with me?” Martin knew he wasn’t being fair. He also knew that Jon would never willingly admit his body still had limits.</p><p>A sigh. Jon tipped the scrambled eggs onto plates and carried them over to the table, unwilling to meet Martin’s eyes.</p><p>“I think that’s a bad idea, Martin. I...sleep is no longer a requirement, for me.” A bitter note crept into his voice at that. “Sleep is a rather human thing, don’t you think?”</p><p>“You <em> are </em> human.” He felt a flash of desperation. The look Jon gave him was almost pitying, and he couldn’t <em> stand </em> it. “You can’t—can’t <em> punish </em>yourself like this.”</p><p>Jon wouldn’t meet his eyes, laid his hands flat on the table so the faint tremor in them wasn’t visible. His right was twisted with scar tissue, his left pockmarked with faint silver worm scars. He had been through so much. Martin wanted to pick up his hand, to kiss each and every scar, every mark that he had lived in spite of. </p><p>“Do you know,” Jon asked in a low voice, leaning across the table, his expression stormy. Behind the frustration there was unmistakable fear. “That if I can’t feed the Eye by terrorizing people awake, it requires me to revisit past victims? Make them relive their encounters with Entities in their dreams? So the goddamned <em> Eye </em>can get its fill, even if I’m not actively hunting people for new traumas?”</p><p>Martin reeled. “What—”</p><p>“The <em> only </em> reason you don’t dream of Jane Prentiss trapping you in your flat, the only reason the Eye doesn’t feed on <em> you </em> over and over again, is that you are part of it. Statement givers aren’t so fortunate.” He grimaced. “Why do you think Daisy broke into Elias’s office and <em> employed </em> herself? To keep me out of her nightmares.”</p><p>“You can’t just...not sleep, Jon. Even if your body doesn’t—even if it has different...needs, now.”</p><p>Jon gritted his teeth, and god, he looked so tired. Bone deep weary. Like he could sleep for a month and it wouldn’t be enough. “I can. It won’t kill me.”</p><p>“But it can’t be good for your, your state of mind—”</p><p>“Because living in people’s nightmares, making them afraid, ruining their lives, that’s <em> great </em> for my state of mind!” There was a hysterical pitch to Jon’s voice now, his pupils dilated, and Martin wondered, horribly, if Jon’s <em> own </em> fear was feeding the Eye. “Please, Martin. I can’t.”</p><p>“Okay. Don’t sleep. But...rest. If you can.” Martin swallowed. “Please?”</p><p>Martin cleared away their dishes, gently tugging Jon against him afterward, holding him in the bright Scottish sunshine, and Jon’s shoulders began to shake. His fists bunched in the back of Martin’s shirt, his face buried in Martin’s chest, and he felt a flare of anger for all the things the Institute had taken from Jon, until he couldn’t even <em> sleep</em>, until he had nothing left but Martin. </p><p>“Let’s go to bed, love,” Martin murmured against his hair, kissing the top of his head lightly, still marveling that they’d been here a week and kissing Jon was a thing he was allowed to do now. He would have felt giddy with it, if Jon didn’t seem practically dead on his feet. </p><p>Jon didn’t put a fight when Martin scooped him up—christ, had he always been this <em> light?— </em>and carried him to the bedroom, his heart breaking all over again as Jon lost his battle with consciousness, falling asleep before Martin could even crawl into bed beside him. He curled an arm around him and pulled him tight, his hand carding through Jon’s hair, and whispered things Jon couldn’t hear. Professions of love, promises to wake him up if his nightmares got out of control, prayers that for once, Jon’s sleep would be dreamless. He laid awake holding him for a long, long time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Day 4: “I’m Fine”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon gets pulled under during a statement.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m absolutely floored than anyone is reading my nonsense. Thank you so much. (And apologies, I have no betas because I’m a coward who won’t let people I know read my stuff, so it’s just the nonsense straight out of my head, no filter.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> You’d think</em>, Martin thought with exasperated fondness, <em> that I’d be used to this. </em> He delighted in using euphemisms for Jon’s statement breaks that perpetually flustered him. <em> They aren’t…’psychic piss breaks’, Martin, </em>he’d splutter indignantly, and he was so adorable that it was all Martin could do not to laugh. It was almost enough to distract him from the truth: the statement breaks were horrible, a gift for the Eye, so it could experience the terror through the human lens that Jon provided. In return, they walked untouched through the nightmares. But that didn’t mean Martin enjoyed listening to them, hearing about all those unlucky people, every second of every life reduced to agony and horror.</p><p>Jon hadn’t wanted to leave him. This was, after all, the Dark, proper dark, unlike the childhood fearscape of Callum Brodie already behind them. They couldn’t see each other, and it made him uneasy, though the low droning litany of terror carried faintly on the stale air. How long had they been there?</p><p>And then Jon’s voice stopped. </p><p>Martin staggered to his feet, hefting his backpack back onto his shoulders. He called out, trying to keep his voice steady, and again, louder and laced with panic, when nothing met him but oppressive silence. He felt his way through the pitch blackness, wishing he had a torch, a match, <em> anything</em>, though who knows how much good it would do in this place. His next footfall made him shriek, not met by ground but a thick, yielding liquid. Not quicksand, but something akin to it, a sucking, inky void. It was cold and wet and he staggered back.</p><p>There was nothing for it. This had been where Jon was. This had swallowed him. And Martin would be <em> damned </em>if he had survived the apocalypse this long to lose Jon.</p><p>He couldn’t keep going without him. He just couldn’t.</p><p>He felt around carefully on the ground with the toe of his boot, finding the area where land dropped off and that sticky, cold water began. He dropped to his knees, and, before he could think too much, he plunged his arm in up to his shoulder, gritting his teeth at the chill of it, at the way it seemed to be trying to pull him in. He reached, flexing his fingers, desperate to bump into <em> something</em>, anything, that indicated that Jon was there <em> .  </em></p><p>Did the normal rules apply? Was Jon even capable of drowning? He didn’t want to find out.</p><p>Finally, his hand grazed something, warm but rapidly cooling.</p><p>It flailed close enough for Martin to grab, instantly recognizing the mottled skin of Jon’s burned right hand. He pulled, hard enough he would fear dislocating Jon’s shoulder if he were still mortal. It was slow progress, until he was finally able to get a second hand in the water, giving one last tug and, with a horrific, squelching splash, the pool of darkness released them. Jon wasn’t radiating his typical feverish heat, and Martin felt around desperately, finding Jon’s chest and immediately beginning compressions, <em> which shouldn’t matter, Jon should be safe, he said nothing could hurt them here</em>.</p><p>He was dreadfully still, though. </p><p>One, two, three, four.</p><p>One, two, three, four.</p><p>He knew he wouldn’t hear a heartbeat but he pressed his ear to Jon’s chest anyway, desperation bordering on hysteria. He had to keep going, keep trying. Finally, there was a faint splutter, turning into a full-blown rasping cough, and oh, god, Martin could <em> hear </em>the blackness gushing out of Jon’s mouth as his lungs finally ejected the choking, miserable dark.</p><p>“Martin.” Jon’s voice was rough, but there was no other sound Martin would rather hear. </p><p>He let out a sob, the panic and adrenaline pulling out like a tide and leaving nothing but fear and almost-grief in its wake.</p><p>He could have <em> lost Jon</em>. </p><p>Familiar, scarred hands cautiously cradled his face, thumbs carefully stroking his cheeks, wiping away tears. </p><p>“I’m fine, Martin.” A pause, and Martin gathered his boyfriend in his arms, unable to stop shaking. “Thanks to you,” he added softly. </p><p>“Don’t you <em> ever </em> scare me like that again.” Martin was aware his voice was pitching higher, that he needed to calm down and breathe. </p><p>“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Jon whispered reassuringly, peppering Martin’s face with kisses.</p><p>Jon didn’t push him away or insist they should get moving. They simply clung to each other, two spots of warmth in the endless, freezing Dark. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Day 5: Stumble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 5: Stumble</p><p>Jon can’t approach the Panopticon unless he allows himself to finish Becoming. Martin loves him anyway.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: canon-typical body horror, eyes, etc.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Just a little bit further.” Jon had been saying this with gritted teeth for hours, every time one of their morale begins to flag, his eyes taking on a faint, sickly green glow as he attempted to Know the distance they still had to walk, staggering mile after mile.</p><p>Martin was too tired to respond, unsure if Jon was trying to reassure him or just himself. </p><p>The Panopticon loomed up ahead, but never got any closer. </p><p>Martin heard it rather than saw—a stumble, a hollow sounding thump. Jon had fallen to the ground, eyes empty, but no statement came out. </p><p>When he opened his mouth, there was only static. </p><p>“Don’t try to Know,” Martin whispered, hooking his hands gently under Jon’s arms and lifting him back up. “You know the Eye can’t see itself. It only ends badly.”</p><p>It <em> hurt </em>him, but that had never stopped him before—stubborn, self-destructive Jon.</p><p>“It really. It really does seem closer than last time.” His voice had a touch of reverb. His eyes glowed—</p><p>“Stop,” Martin begged, his voice breaking.</p><p>He heard it like a gunshot, and Jon made a bitten-off sound that might have been a scream if he’d had less self control. He sagged in Martin’s arms, mouth twisting in silent agony. </p><p>The Watcher, it seemed, had gotten impatient. Or maybe Jon had tried too hard to See, and Beholding simply tried to make it easier for him. But it didn’t sound easy. It sounded <em> awful</em>. Jon’s bones cracked and his skin split, revealing only the vaguest, most ominous suggestions of <em> eyes. </em>His back arched and he thrashed, but Martin didn’t let go of him. The two eyes where they should have been, so dark they were nearly black, were empty. Nothing of Jon was visible there. </p><p>Black slashes on his palms spilled green light, and they <em> looked</em>, and they <em> saw. </em>Martin did not flinch away. He couldn’t stop the hot cascade of tears, but he held Jon’s hands, pressing a dry, trembling kiss to each wrist. </p><p><em> I love you</em>, the kiss said. <em> All of you. No matter what is made of you. </em></p><p>Just as abruptly as all the eyes had opened, they all fell shut, leaving nothing to suggest they had been there but faint glowing lines disappearing into Jon’s skin.</p><p>The Archivist’s Becoming was complete. The Eye in the sky nictated, throwing off a sick, gleeful light. It felt like Jonah <em> winning</em>, and Martin hated it. Any illusion that Jon would survive this with his humanity intact was fading fast. </p><p>Martin didn’t care, as long as he <em> survived.  </em></p><p>This transformation (<em>dream logic</em>, Jon’s voice whispered in Martin’s mind) was clearly what the Panopticon was waiting for, because the crushing, never-ending distance seemed to fall away. They could get there, now that Jon had finally succumbed to his Being.</p><p>Martin cradled Jon against his chest, and tried not to wonder if this was the last time he’d get to hold him. Tried not to think how much he’d love to carry Jon just like this over the threshold of the little cottage in Scotland. Why hadn’t he done that while he had the chance, during those two weeks of happiness untouched by the dread powers?</p><p>“If we survive this,” Martin murmured, pressing a fervent kiss to Jon’s forehead. “I’m going to ask you to marry me.”</p><p>Jon’s hand curled into Martin’s hair softly. “You don’t want to marry a monster. Not sure that’s even legal.”</p><p>“Ah, awake, are we?” Martin smiled, and grateful that the sea of eyes on Jon’s skin still hadn’t re-emerged. He shifted Jon in his arms so he could see him better, letting some of the heartbreak show on his face. “You’re not a monster, Jon.”</p><p>“You did just see my body produce a hundred eldritch eyeballs, right?” His tone was so dry, so shockingly <em> Jon</em>, that he could have cried with the relief of it. He squirmed. “I can walk.”</p><p>“Just let me carry you. Just a little longer.”</p><p>Martin didn’t say the words that were choking him, threatening to spill tears if he did: <em> let me hold you while I can.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Day 6: Fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon doesn’t understand why statements aren’t helping him feel better, until Martin reminds him that he is—at least to some degree—still human enough to work himself into the ground.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: illness, self-loathing, implied suicidal ideation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan Sims could take care of himself, thank you very much. He didn’t know how to let others take care of him; Georgie had tried, the few times he was sick when they were together, but he was an expert at driving people away even under the best circumstances, and he was hardly <em> more </em>pleasant when unwell.</p><p>Martin, well…he had tried harder than Jon deserved, frankly. Had spent years gently bullying him into eating regular meals that Jon would forget if left to his own devices, reminding him not to work too late.  Bringing him tea, checking in on him.</p><p>Before the Unknowing, Jon had almost thought Martin—that he reciprocated—if the rumors were to be believed—well. It hardly mattered now. Jon had died in Great Yarmouth, and he had come back, but nobody seemed particularly happy about it. Maybe they all sensed what he’d given up, the humanity he’d left behind, and they didn’t want much to do with whatever he had become.</p><p>Not that he blamed them.</p><p>He could take Basira’s suspicious glares, the way her hand was never far from her gun, the way she made it perfectly clear that her job was to take out monsters, and if he became a threat, she wouldn’t hesitate.</p><p>Even before Melanie had been trapped here with them, she hated Jon, though no more than Jon hated himself, and for the same reasons. He saw much of himself in her—desperate to be taken seriously, to be valuable, to be needed but to need nobody in return. Prickly, difficult. Pushing people away.</p><p>He deserved the cold shoulder he was getting from Martin. He had been an utter ass to him for so long; of course he had moved on while Jon was dead. But it <em> hurt. </em>He always thought Martin would be there when he was ready to deal with—whatever it was he was feeling. Kind, patient Martin.</p><p>Jon thought, if he just worked long enough, and hard enough, and pretended to be human enough, that he could consume enough statements to almost be…himself, again. And that maybe that would be enough to bring Martin back from whatever distant office he’d drifted off to, serving as the personal assistant to the new head of the institute.</p><p>At least when Elias had been here, everyone had a common enemy. Now, it seemed, the common enemy was Jon.</p><p>“What’s going on.” It was a question, but Basira’s voice was flat, and he flinched in response.</p><p>“Nothing,” he said too quickly.</p><p>“You’ve got that look about you.” Her face was hard as she leaned over the desk. “Like you’re about to do something really stupid.”</p><p>“Don’t I always?” Jon arched an eyebrow at her. To his surprise, she huffed what could have been a laugh.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s fair.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Go home, Jon. You don’t need to be here all the time.”</p><p>“No.” He shuffled the papers on his desk and refused to meet her gaze. “Too much work to do.”</p><p>“These dusty old statements will still be here tomorrow.”</p><p>He couldn’t tell her the truth: he thought he was going through some kind of statement withdrawal from not reading enough. His head pounded. His eyes burned. His body ached. It was a struggle to keep his teeth from chattering. Written statements didn’t even take the edge off. If he let her know, she would realize he had veered too far into monster territory. Irredeemable. She’d make good on her promise to put him down. (He almost wished she’d try, but knew—in his heart of hearts—there probably wasn’t enough left of him to truly die.)</p><p>“Yes, yes,” he grumbled dismissively.</p><p>“I mean it. You need some time away from this place. You look like shit.” </p><p>He spluttered indignantly and she raised her eyebrows, daring him to argue. He couldn’t, of course, but how could he tell her that leaving would only make it <em> worse? </em>He tucked several folders under his arm and stood up stiffly. </p><p>“Any other demands?” He asked sourly.</p><p>“Taking work home defeats the point.”</p><p>He stalked past her, out of the office, and took a sharp left, retreating not toward the stairs out of the basement but toward document storage, where there was still, with any luck, a cot.</p><p>He didn’t turn on the light because he found, to his disgust, he did not have to. He could navigate in perfect darkness. On one hand, the Eye had yet another foothold in his body. On the other hand, Basira was less likely to find him and try to force him to go to a flat he no longer actually had. The cot was tucked into a corner, and he made a choked noise when he saw the duffel bag underneath.</p><p>Yes, it had been his cot once, but then it had been Martin’s, and it left his lungs feeling strangely tight and uncomfortable.</p><p>Jon sat down on the edge of it, pulling out the bag and unzipping it gently, knowing what he would find inside: several notebooks, which he refused to touch—what if he accidentally Knew what was in them? He couldn’t invade Martin’s privacy like that—and a long-forgotten, cable-knit jumper. Martin hadn’t worn it in ages, but it still smelled faintly of his favorite detergent and the box of black tea that had been sitting up against it. </p><p>Document storage was cold, that was all.</p><p>He didn’t want to wear it because it was Martin’s. He had no right to <em> miss </em> Martin. It would just be easier to focus on statements if he were warm, that’s all. So he slipped it on over his head, and it was soft, and it was <em> comfortable</em>, and he could have wept with the relief of it, and he hated himself for that most of all.</p><p>He hadn’t brought a recorder, but he trusted one would turn up if any of the statements were worth putting to tape.</p><p><em> You look like shit, </em> Basira had said, and he scowled. It was no surprise. He <em> felt </em>like shit.</p><p>He read almost a whole folder of statements with no improvements.</p><p>What did the Eye <em> want </em>from him? He curled up on the cot, wrapping his arms around himself, shivering in the dark. He could probably Know what time it was without looking at his phone, but god, he was exhausted.</p><p>He’d get up and move soon.</p><p>Well.</p><p>Eventually.</p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>He cracked one eye open, thought briefly of trying to preserve what little dignity he had left, and decided against it, closing it again so he wouldn’t have to look at the concerned face looming over him. It left a hollow ache in his chest. There was not one inch of his body that didn’t hurt, and if Martin wanted to judge him for sleeping in his jumper—well, at least that would require Martin to acknowledge his existence.</p><p>He startled, making an involuntary noise that sounded embarrassingly like a whimper when a cool hand touched his face and then pulled back with a low hiss.</p><p>“Jon, you’re burning up.”</p><p>He couldn’t be bothered to care much.</p><p>“Can you hear me?”</p><p>He resisted the urge to lean forward, to find Martin’s hand again. It had felt so good against the heat of his forehead. It took more than one try to force words out.</p><p>“I’m fine. Just need…” What <em> did </em>he need? Statements? Sleep? Sleep felt crucial. </p><p>“You need paracetamol. And a doctor. Can you move?”</p><p>Jon sighed, but tried, because he would do anything Martin asked. He propped himself up on one elbow, moved further down the cot, and pulled his knees to his chest. Martin eased himself down beside him, gently sliding an arm under him and pulling him into a sitting position, cradled against his chest. Jon bit off a cry—half startled, half pain—while Martin’s hands fluttered helplessly above him. </p><p>“I was trying to help.” Martin sounded choked and it ached way down in a part of Jon’s heart he’d almost forgotten.</p><p>“Why?” The word escaped, vulnerable and small, before he could stop it. </p><p>“Because I…I need you to be okay.” </p><p>He knew he should push himself off Martin’s lap. He was just being kind. It didn’t mean anything. But he was so tired and he hadn’t been held like this—maybe ever, now that he thought about it. And it was such a relief, just to be held, to let someone else be strong for once.</p><p>“Yeah, well, it’s hard to hold something with sharp edges,” Martin said softly, and Jon stiffened. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.</p><p>“I don’t deserve it anyway,” he muttered, his face flushing further with shame.</p><p>“Of course you do, Jon.” Martin sounded strangled. “You can’t—can’t run yourself into the ground like this. You can’t punish yourself by working yourself to death.”</p><p>Ah. That’s why the statements hadn’t helped. </p><p>What a terribly human weakness. He was just <em> sick. </em>That was all.</p><p>Martin stiffened as Peter Lukas’s voice drifted by the door, and—inexplicably—clutched Jon tighter to his chest, protectively. It was a long time before he relaxed, and Jon had almost drifted back off.</p><p>“Nope, we’re getting you some medicine, and <em> then </em>you can go back to sleep.”</p><p>Martin helped Jon to his feet, keeping one arm firmly around his waist and taking most of his weight. The feverish heat of Jon’s skin almost made him recoil.</p><p>“It—it was cold. I’m sorry I borrowed your jumper.”</p><p>“I forgot I left it here, to be honest. Keep it.”</p><p>Martin eased him down into a chair in the break room, running the tap and returning with a cup of water and a couple of paracetamol tablets in hand. If Jon didn’t know better, the way Martin watched him felt almost...tender. He tossed back the medicine and, after some gentle prodding, finished the water as well. </p><p>“Peter will be looking for me,” Martin said quietly, unable to meet Jon’s eyes. “Can you get back to the cot—?”</p><p>“Of course, Martin, I’m not an invalid,” he snapped defensively, but there was no heat to it, and Martin just gave him a sad smile that nearly cracked his heart in two. </p><p>“And promise you’ll get some rest, yeah?”</p><p>It was so much easier to shoot Martin a scathing look than to do what he really wanted to do—ask Martin to stay. Not long, just...just till he dropped back off to sleep. But no. That wasn’t fair, wasn’t something he could ask of him. He was too kind. He would do it, even if he didn’t want to.</p><p>“And see a doctor in the morning, please,” Martin added softly. “When I said I needed you to be okay, I meant it, Jon.”</p><p>It was suddenly very difficult to swallow. After months of being ignored, this was somehow even harder—having Martin for a moment, just to lose him again. </p><p>“Yes,” Jon agreed, his voice breaking, and he stood, turning around in the doorway to say goodnight, but there was nothing in the room but a cold fog. </p><p>Martin was long gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Day 7: Self-Sacrifice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Eye closes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: major character death, canon typical body horror re: eyes</p><p>SPOILERS for MAG 199.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Martin. Martin!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even mostly asleep, he immediately felt cold, and panic stirred in his gut before he fully understood why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His arms were empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Georgie was bent over him, her face creased with worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon must’ve—taken matters into his own hands.” Her voice was unsteady as he’d ever heard it. “He’s not in the tunnels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s hand shot out and, where his boyfriend had been sleeping, his hand tangled in nothing but soft green fabric. Nestled in the middle of Jon’s cardigan was a small cassette recorder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to listen—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” There wasn’t time. He staggered to his feet and took off at a dead run, the cardigan and recorder tucked tightly under one arm. Precious cargo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no Archivists above the tunnels. That was either a good sign or a very bad one. He wasn’t going to wait to find out. Rosie was no longer at her position at the desk. He took the steps up the Panopticon two and a time, was almost to Elias—Jonah’s—door when a violent tremor rattled the stairs beneath his feet and Jon’s voice rose above a roaring static.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing, who fears and craves death in equal measure, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>let. Him. Perish.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonah’s scream split the air, and so did Martin’s, because he was—he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>seconds </span>
  </em>
  <span>too late—and he fell to his knees in the doorway, looking up helplessly at the Eye that had been Watching since Jon uttered the incantation so long ago. Jonah was no longer there, which was no surprise, but god, it hurt to see Jon there, a hundred eyes cracked open all over his body, his mouth twisted in a silent scream. His two human eyes were terribly blank until they swept the room, catching briefly on Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, against the excruciating pain, against the suffering of the entire world, Jon gave him a look of such love that it felt like a physical blow. One by one, the eyes on his body closed, spilling inky black tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin couldn’t even reach him. Couldn’t even tell him goodbye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, only Jon’s true eyes remained, and there was anguish there, but also triumph. With one final push, he closed his own eyes, and his body fell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Eye, without a pupil, slid shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sickly green light that pervaded London lifted, and genuine sunlight slanted in through the windows. Martin crawled forward on hands and knees, gathering Jon into his lap. His body was so small, so frail. So human. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay with me, Jon, stay—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shook with grief, with terror, with the realization that he’d consider putting the apocalypse right back if it meant having Jon again. He buried his face in the hair he had brushed and braided and carded his hands through so many times, and had dreamed of for so long before that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The screams and cheers of humanity began to rise from the streets, because Martin may have lost his entire world, but everyone else’s was finally returning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You promised.” His voice cracked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tape recorder gave a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>whir</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Martin let out a rough sob. He wanted to hurl it across the room. Hadn’t it taken enough from him? Hadn’t it taken </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What else could it possibly want?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went very still as a voice rose from the static, recorded with a slight echo that told him Jon had made this tape in the tunnels. He bit back a cry at the sound of the voice he thought he wouldn’t get to hear again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Statement of Jonathan Sims, the former Archivist, regarding a plan, a confession, a request, and his love for Martin Blackwood. Recorded on the final day of apocalypse. </span>
  <span>Statement Begins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. That it took years of trauma to make us compatible. But I don’t think that’s strictly true. By the time we met, my ability to trust was...damaged, and things only proceeded to get worse. But the heart of the matter is this: you wanted to know me, and so you stayed, even when I was terrible, even when I became...whatever I am. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Because love is a choice we make over and over, every day, Martin. So no, maybe we didn’t have a—a fairy tale moment where our eyes locked across a crowded room, and we knew we were it, for each other. But every day you choose to love me on purpose. And every day I choose the same. Deliberately, with intention. And I think that counts for something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to leave you.” Jon’s voice was soft, and he could barely take it. “I want…I want us to survive. I want to go back to Scotland, and watch you make impossibly fond faces at shaggy highland cows. I want to make you tea and cook you breakfast. I want to wake up every day and marvel that you’re beside me. We’d have cats, you know. They’d have very dignified names. We would both be...okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t think that’s been an option for me...for a while. So I’ve broken my promise, and all I can do is hope it won’t be for nothing. I’m sorry, Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I know what to do, but if it doesn’t work, I—I need one more favor of you, and I know I have no right to ask it. But you’ve always been far more generous to me than I deserve. If I cannot close the Eye...you don’t have to be the one to do it. Perhaps Basira, she’s terribly practical like that. But someone will need to close it if I can’t. And then this will finally be over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s breath shook on the tape, choking. “I think what it comes to, at the end of all things—I think I have to want something more than the Eye wants to Know everything. And that’s...that’s the easy part. Because all I want is you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin was faintly aware of the thundering footsteps up the stairs, accompanied by Georgie and Melanie’s exultant shouts. Basira’s more subdued tone followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’m going to try to close the Eye, and it will work, or it won’t, but I’ll have tried. I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing it because I love you, Martin, more than I ever thought myself capable of, and—and I want you to be happy. It’s difficult. Even if this succeeds—maybe especially if it succeeds—it will be difficult. But please, Martin. Live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon took one last shuddering breath on the tape, and Martin wanted to smash it against the stone floor and clutch it to his chest and never let it go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you. End recording.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Day 8: Bandaged</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After the meeting where Elias confessed and refused to give Jon information about his new inhumanity, Martin helps him change the bandages on his hand and reminds him that he doesn't have to do this alone.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: burns, non-graphic descriptions of tending wounds</p><p>Jon's dialogue taken from the Not!Sasha chasing him from MAG 079, Hide and Seek.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time Martin Blackwood saw Jonathan Sims, he looked untouchable. He wore a crisp button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the most boring tie imaginable, with a discarded blazer on the back of his chair. His hair was pulled back carefully into a tidy bun. His eyes were sharp and calculating behind his glasses. <em> He does have the hot professor thing going on </em>, Tim had supplied helpfully, and Martin’s face had gone red at the casualness of it.</p><p>That was the image he held in his mind of Jon for a long time: glaring, professorial, buttoned-up and above it all, not a wrinkle in sight or a hair out of place.</p><p>It was very hard to reconcile that image with the man Martin found sitting at the breakroom table. </p><p>He had never looked particularly...<em> well </em> rested. But this was a level of exhaustion bordering on dangerous. The circular scars from Prentiss’s attacks were almost familiar at this point, but—</p><p>“What <em> happened </em> to you?” Martin blurted, his voice high as Jon stopped fidgeting with the bandages on his hand. </p><p>“Elias just confessed to murder, and your biggest concern is what happened to <em> me</em>?”</p><p>Martin flinched, and Jon’s expression softened just a fraction. “I, ah, I had some. Unfortunate encounters.” He grimaced. “While I was...away from the Institute.”</p><p>“Did someone—” Martin’s hand drifted to his own throat, looking at the blood-soaked gauze against Jon’s neck.</p><p>“Daisy,” he said flatly, and Martin recoiled. “Shot Michael Crew—from statement 9982112, with the Lichtenberg scar, tried to kill me, and...had me dig a grave for us both.” His voice lilted up with an edge of hysteria, almost bordering on a laugh, like humor would somehow dampen the horror.</p><p>“Christ, Jon, I—I’m glad you’re okay. Can I...help?”</p><p>“I’m quite alright,” he said crisply.</p><p>“Right. Trying to change your bandages with your non-dominant hand is clearly going <em> very </em>well for you.”</p><p>Martin grinned at the slack-jawed expression of indignation on Jon, and simply sat down next to him, gently taking the first aid kit and a fresh roll of bandages.</p><p>“I mean it, Jon. I’m not going to touch without your permission, but I do think it would go a lot more smoothly if you accepted a bit of help.” </p><p>“That would...thank you, yes, that would be helpful,” Jon said faintly, sounding slightly winded. </p><p>Martin gently held his hands out, palms up, and waited patiently. He held his breath, feeling something like reverence when Jon hesitantly lifted his bandaged hand and placed it carefully in Martin’s. The moment felt incredibly fragile. He had never seen Jon willingly let anyone touch him.</p><p>“Are you sure it’s okay?”</p><p>“Yes,” Jon said softly. </p><p>Martin had more than a little experience caregiving, especially with a reluctant patient, but Jon stayed very still and didn’t complain, just held his shoulders stiff and his jaw clamped shut, his eyes big and dark and entirely too vulnerable. Slowly, he unwound the bandages, hissing low and quiet when he saw the bubbled flesh of Jon’s right hand, a flash of unexpected anger and protectiveness taking him by surprise. </p><p>This was an <em> Archive</em>, though none of them could pretend that was all it was anymore. Jon’s biggest threat should have been minor workplace accidents, falls off a step ladder retrieving files at worst, not—not <em> stabbed </em> and <em> burned </em> and <em> held at knifepoint</em>. This should never have happened to him.</p><p>Jon stiffened, noticing how still Martin had become.</p><p>“I can take it from here, Martin, if you’re uncomfortable, I, I know it’s unpleasant—”</p><p>“Hush.” He stood up, releasing Jon’s hand. “Just tell me if I’m hurting you. I’ll be as careful as I can.”</p><p>Martin discarded the old bandages, washed his hands, and tore open a packet with a sterile cloth inside, running it under warm water.</p><p>“I can, I can do this.” </p><p>If Martin were braver, or his heart a little less fragile, he might have leaned forward then and asked Jon—when was the last time someone had taken care of him? And tell him, of course, that it was okay to let people help him now and again. He didn’t have to do this alone. </p><p>“You shouldn’t have to.” He wouldn’t make eye contact, just focused on being as gentle as possible with the warped, damaged skin burned undeniably in the shape of <em> a human hand</em>. </p><p>Jon pulled in a shuddering breath, taut with pain, and Martin made a sympathetic noise.</p><p>“Almost finished,” he murmured. “You’re doing so well, Jon, we’re almost done.”</p><p>Martin marveled at the trust Jon had in him. Maybe he was simply too tired to be wary at this point, or maybe, maybe Martin had <em> earned </em> it. He let out a shaky breath as he applied the antibiotic ointment to the gauze and placed it against Jon’s skin, starting to rewrap his hand with deft fingers.</p><p>“Thank you, Martin.” The way Jon’s voice caught on his name made something tighten in his chest. “That was much easier. You won’t have to do it again. It will—it will probably heal fairly quickly on its own, now,” Jon said quietly, not meeting his eyes.</p><p>“Right,” he scoffed, and then hesitated, because Jon was still adamantly looking away, his face ashen. “What do you mean?”</p><p>Jon laughed, a flat, discordant thing without any real humor. He sounded lost. “Elias, ah...Elias told me I’m not...human. Anymore.”</p><p>And oh, it <em> hurt </em> , because Martin knew this place was doing <em> something </em> to them, but not this. Jon might be an ass sometimes, but underneath the veneer of pretension and impatience, there was something endearingly, achingly earnest about him. His logic might not have been sound, but his intentions were good. He was doing his best. Despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, Jon <em> cared</em>.</p><p>He thought back to the tape of the creature stalking Jon through the tunnels, whispering fervent apologies with what he assumed were his last breaths. </p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry. Martin, Tim… Sasha. I’m so sorry. I should have… I didn’t… I’m sorry.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> God, I’m so sorry.  </em>
</p><p><em> Please forgive me. If you’re still alive… if… if you hear this. Get as far away from the Magnus Institute </em>—</p><p>He was more human than nearly anyone Martin knew.</p><p>“Elias,” Martin said fiercely, “is a <em> prick</em>. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”</p><p>“No, Martin, he’s...right. I don’t know what I’m...what I’m becoming, or, or—”</p><p>“No. No, Jon, I won’t let you do this.”</p><p>“Am I?” Jon asked faintly, so quiet Martin could barely hear him.</p><p>He was suddenly very aware that Jon’s bandaged hand still rested carefully atop his own.</p><p>“Are you what?”</p><p>“Jon,” he said, as if it were obvious, and the fear in his eyes made Martin’s chest grow tight with misery. “Or am I just...the Archivist, now?”</p><p>“You’re Jon. You’ve always been Jon, and you always will be.”</p><p>“People who are...touched by these powers, whatever they may be. Eventually they forget how to be human.” He chuckled, but it was a sharp, brittle sound. “I was never very good at that to begin with, if I’m honest.”</p><p>“Then I’ll remind you.” </p><p>Martin pulled his hands away carefully, because he didn’t trust himself not to take Jon’s good hand, to kiss his knuckles and remind him that he wasn’t alone, that Tim might be angry and Sasha might be gone but there’s still, at the end of all things, <em> Martin</em>. Always.  </p><p>With conviction, he repeated it. “I’ll remind you.”</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Day 9: Concussion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A concussion has unexpected side effects by disconnecting Jon briefly from the Eye. And Martin comforts him, because what else can he do?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: head injury, descriptions of blood and injury, concussion</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Be reasonable</em>, Jon had said. <em> One of us can request knowledge as needed from an evil fear god, Martin, we might as well take advantage. It’s not like there’s wireless internet out here.</em></p><p>And Martin, of course, had agreed. Because Jon sounded so reasonable. Of course his boyfriend had instant access to eldritch Google and so he should be the one up the ladder, patching the persistent leak in the roof of Daisy’s safehouse. It hadn’t taken all that much convincing, anyway; ladders made him uneasy. </p><p>So when Jon impatiently held his hand back and asked for a tool Martin had never even heard of, that strange green glint to his eye that said he was pulling knowledge from somewhere other than his own experience, he turned around to root through the rusty old toolbox they’d found in the shed out back.</p><p>He only looked away for a <em> second</em>.</p><p>A second, of course, was plenty of time.</p><p>He turned just in time to see it happen, unable to cross the kitchen and do a damn thing to stop it.</p><p>Jon didn’t even have time to scream as he fell. The only sound was a sickening crack as the back of his head hit the counter, and then he was on the floor in a heap. Everything was too slow, like Martin was running through water. He was terrified to touch Jon, to move him, wasn’t there something about spinal injuries or—?</p><p>A sob tore out of Martin as he slid an arm under Jon’s shoulders. He was so <em> still</em>, so <em> heavy. </em> The words <em> dead weight </em> flitted through his mind in for a brief and horrible moment. He couldn’t even call 999, the closest phone was a pay phone down in the village—</p><p>Jon’s back arched and a shuddering breath ripped out of his lungs. His bones made a distinct <em> crack </em>as they resituated.  A week out of the Eye’s domain had, fortunately, not taken away Jon’s preternatural healing, but it hardly sounded pleasant, and Jon hissed with pain when Martin gingerly touched the back of his head. His shaking hand came away wet and slick with blood, and if he didn’t know better—he reached back in, and felt gently, horrified at the resolidifying bone fragments slotting themselves back into place.</p><p>Jon’s eyes were focused on the middle distance. </p><p>“Hey, hey, hey. Stay with me,” Martin whispered.</p><p>His breathing was less labored, at least, but it was growing deeper and slower.</p><p>“You can’t go to sleep, Jon. Talk to me. Can you hear me?”</p><p>“Hurts,” he murmured. The word was small and faint but Martin trembled with the relief of it.</p><p>He was alive, and talking, and <em> healing.</em></p><p>He narrowed his eyes and then a shocking, beatific smile broke over his face. There was blood in his hair and his skull had just mended itself after being crushed against the kitchen counter, but Jon looked positively <em> euphoric.  </em></p><p>“Martin.” His voice was full of wonder despite his slurring speech. “I can’t <em> Know </em>things.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>He closed his eyes. “The—the door. It won’t open. The Beholding can’t reach me.”</p><p>This clearly delighted Jon, but it just filled Martin with a low, sick dread. If the Eye was what kept Jon alive (<em>don’t think about him cold and small and so so still in a hospital bed for months after the Unknowing don’t)</em> and hitting his head had severed the connection…</p><p>“I don’t Know what you’re thinking,” he breathed, and god, it hurt to see that giddy smile on his face. “I <em> can’t.</em>”</p><p>“Can you—“ Martin grappled helplessly, trying to remember how Jon had described it. “The door won’t open, but is it still there? In your mind?”</p><p>Martin saw the moment it happened, the moment Jon’s poor battered brain healed over its new injury and Beholding reconnected, sinking its tendrils back into him. There was a look of terrible loss on Jon’s face before it turned into something much, much worse, and he shouted, incoherent and strangled, a noise of agony.</p><p>Jon didn’t stop screaming for a long, long time, and Martin simply held him, cradled him in his lap and rocked gently, tears streaming down his face and whispering pointless words of comfort he wasn’t even sure if Jon could hear. He tapered off eventually, going quiet and listless in Martin’s arms.</p><p>“Can I—can I carry you to the bath, love?” </p><p>All Martin could think of was Jon’s hair under his fingers, stiff with dried blood.</p><p>Jon didn’t object, so Martin lifted him, holding him steady against his chest so he didn’t jostle any injuries. He put Jon down on the bed (<em>their bed, </em>and his mind reeled at it, how he’d had something that made him so happy for just one week and he almost lost it today) and went to run a bath, peering through the doorway every now and then to make sure Jon was still breathing. </p><p>The next time he looked up Jon was leaning in the doorway. </p><p>“I’m fine, you know,” he said quietly, carefully. “I just—when the concussion healed, all the Beholding rushed in, like a, a broken dam, and I couldn’t make it stop.”</p><p>Martin didn’t meet his eyes, just turned off the water and stood up, heading for the door to give Jon some privacy, despite every instinct screaming not to let him out of his sight. Jon grabbed his hand on the way by and deliberately brought it up to the back of his head, running Martin’s hand over the perfectly smooth, perfectly healed wound, desperate to show him he really was okay.</p><p>“Then why do you still look so miserable?” Martin whispered.</p><p>Jon looked away. “Because for a moment, it couldn’t reach me, and I felt—human, again. I forgot what that was like, you know.”</p><p>“You’re still human, Jon.” Martin pressed a careful, gentle kiss to his forehead.</p><p>“Tell that to Peter Lukas. I <em> Beheld him to death,</em>” Jon muttered, but carefully pulled his shirt off over his head, retreating into the bathroom.</p><p>“You’re still human, and we’re not going to fight about it. I’ll be right out here if you need me.”</p><p>Martin’s heart clenched, wondering if he imagined the faint words<em>—I always need you</em>—before the door clicked shut behind Jon.</p>
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